You can make love without ever taking off your clothes.
You make it in the way you look at someone when they are talking about their dreams.
You make it in how you hold space for their grief, without trying to fix it.
You make it in the prayer you whisper over them when they are asleep and do not even know you are watching.
You make it in the choice to stay when things are uncomfortable.
You make it in the way you laugh together.
Not just giggles. But the kind of deep laughter that makes your chest ache and your eyes tear up. The kind of joy that feels like God Himself is smiling through both of you.
You make love when you read next to each other. Books open. Legs touching. No conversation. Just presence. Just breathing. Knowing that peace is not always about words—sometimes it’s about who is beside you while the world continues to spin.
You make love when you hold hands in prayer. When you invite God into your relationship without needing a reason or a crisis. When one of you is weary and the other becomes the intercessor. When covering each other in prayer becomes a daily act of love, not just a spiritual discipline.
You make love when you apologize first. When your pride steps aside so your connection can remain intact. When you say, “I was wrong” and mean it. When you say, “I forgive you” and release it.
You make love when you are fully clothed and still feel naked. Not exposed in shame, but uncovered in truth. Safe in your imperfection. Held in your vulnerability.
That is the sacred work of love.
It is not fireworks. It is firewood. The slow building of something that can last through storms.
It is not about performance. It is about presence.
It is not about perfection. It is about permission.
To be seen. To be flawed. To be loved anyway.
I remember lying in bed with someone once. We had not touched. We had not kissed. But I had never felt so known. He read to me that night. Just held me and read a chapter from a book he loved. And in that moment, I felt more intimate with him than I had ever felt with anyone before.
He was not trying to impress me. He was not trying to get anything from me. He was simply with me.
Present. Soft. Honest.
That is the kind of love I believe in.
The kind that does not rush.
The kind that does not perform.
The kind that is sacred because it is real.
So many of us have mistaken touch for tenderness. But touch without trust is empty.
Touch without presence is hollow.
Touch without love is noise.
You make love when you listen without interrupting.
When you show up without being asked.
When you remember the small things they told you in passing.
When you create safety with your voice.
When you speak to their spirit—not just their body.
That is love being made in real time. In the real world. Not in a movie. Not in a fantasy. But right here. In your kitchen. In your prayer closet. In the small, unnoticed moments that build the strongest kind of bond.
If no one has ever made love to you like that, you are not broken. You are just sacred. And you have not been met yet with someone who knows how to love you slowly.
You deserve the kind of love that holds you without needing to undress you.
You deserve the kind of intimacy that lives in the daily rituals of respect and laughter and prayer.
You deserve someone who wants to know your soul more than your skin.
And if you have that already, protect it. Water it. Honor it.
That kind of love is rare. But it is real.
And it does not begin in the bedroom.
It begins in the quiet.
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